


'O Sole Mio

by splot



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dorian's Fire magic is very important, F/M, Post-In Your Heart Shall Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 18:49:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6869146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splot/pseuds/splot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she wakes, it takes a few moments for her senses to return. She's somewhere cold, and dark, save for the green glow emanating from her left palm. There's something different about it, but she pushes it to the back of her mind for now. She focuses instead on the pain radiating from her left hip, spiralling all the way up her ribs. A shaking hand feels for the silverite flask on her belt, a gift from one of the elder enchanters at Ostwick before her trek to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and brings it to her lips. A few mouthfuls of Lyrium are enough to give her the energy to heal her broken bones. The rest she secures away onto her belt, sure she'll have some need for it later as she heaves herself up onto her feet. There's still a dull ache that she presses her palm to, and lets out a shuddering, shivering sigh as the cold seeps into her skin. She doesn't know how long she was lying there in the snow, but her cloak is soaked through, and Anya expends the slightest bit more energy to dry it out.</p>
<p>The Herald of Andraste, taken in by a Winter's Death, wouldn't that be an anti-climatic end to her story?</p>
            </blockquote>





	'O Sole Mio

As she stares down Corypheus and his dragon, a strange sense of calmness falls over Anya Trevelyan. The sword is strange and unfamiliar in her hands, pointed out at the Darkspawn magister, defiance simmering in Fade-green eyes. The flare that indicates the Inquisition is at a safe distance has gone up, unnoticed by her opponent as he blathers on at her. Finally, there's a break in his speech, and she regards him coolly, shifting the sword to her left hand. A slight smirk draws over the mage's lips, and when she speaks, her voice is as blasé and mocking as ever.

"Your arrogance blinds you. Good to know."

And she kicks the trebuchet's lever, the projectile causing enough of a distraction for her to drop the sword and run like the hounds of the Void were nipping at her heels. Not once does Anya look back, not even when the Dragon screeches so loud she's sure her ears bleed not even as the world shakes around her.

She's not sure where the hole in the ground came from, but all too soon, the darkness is swallowing her up, her hip smacking into something painfully solid on her way down, the fall knocking the wind out of her; her breath leaving her in a startled exhale of pain as she lands on her shattered hip. She barely has the sense of mind to roll out from under the hole just in time for debris from the avalanche to fill it, and then the world goes blissfully dark.

* * *

 When she wakes, it takes a few moments for her senses to return. She's somewhere cold, and dark, save for the green glow emanating from her left palm. There's something different about it, but she pushes it to the back of her mind for now. She focuses instead on the pain radiating from her left hip, spiralling all the way up her ribs. A shaking hand feels for the silverite flask on her belt, a gift from one of the elder enchanters at Ostwick before her trek to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and brings it to her lips. A few mouthfuls of Lyrium are enough to give her the energy to heal her broken bones. The rest she secures away onto her belt, sure she'll have some need for it later as she heaves herself up onto her feet. There's still a dull ache that she presses her palm to, and lets out a shuddering, shivering sigh as the cold seeps into her skin. She doesn't know how long she was lying there in the snow, but her cloak is soaked through, and Anya expends the slightest bit more energy to dry it out.

**_The Herald of Andraste, taken in by a Winter's Death, wouldn't that be an anti-climatic end to her story?_ **

She assumes she's fallen into the tunnel Chancellor Rodrick had mentioned, and so she follows it out, slow steps in powdery snow. It's not long before she happens upon a cavern, and she's busy looking for a way up and out when the Despair Demons rise up.

Of all the times she wished Dorian would not yammer on in her ear about _Tevinter this_ and _Southerners that_ and _what on the Maker's green earth is that Marquis wearing?_ , this moment is quite the opposite. His base magic of fire is much more effective in counteracting the cold fingers of the Despair demons than her lightning. She knows her spells will be useless on their own, and she doesn't have any ideas---

\---The odd calmness falls over her again, and she looks down at the mark on her left hand, crackling and spitting angrily. Corypheus' attempts to take it have changed it, and she forms a plan that is so _stupid_ , it might just work.

The hand that had been reaching for her staff drops as she raises the left, narrows her concentration and channels all her energy to the mark, and wills the Veil to part.

A rift opens above the demons.

They realize what's happened a second after she does, the rift dragging them in as they spit and shriek and claw. It won't stay open long, she can already feel it diminishing, but it will be enough to draw them both in and give her ample opportunity to run.

And so she does.

Each breath, each step wracks painfully through her body as she weaves around the rift and ducks a demon's swiping claws as it searches for something to cling to, and disappears down the tunnel ahead as she hears a final wail and the rift shattering in on itself.

* * *

 

When she finally deems it safe to stop running, she slides down to sit against the tunnel wall and catch her breath. It's only a few minutes later when she registers a cool breeze on her face. **_An exit?_**

Anya sits a few moments longer, her mind wandering. _Is the Chancellor still alive_ , she wonders. She owed him an apology, after having thought him a mere nuisance with all his yapping about her heretic following. After all, he had been the one to lead them all out to safety while she met her fate.

Of course, thinking of the priest draws her mind sluggishly to the Commander. _Cullen_. He'd had a way of diffusing the Chancellor's manner with a few words and making her smirk with a dry comment. The flush that rose in his neck and the tips of his ears after her cheeky question about any vows of celibacy amongst the Templars. The unruly mess of golden curls in the afternoon sunlight after he went a few rounds with the Iron Bull, sweat dripping down his neck and into the simple tunic he'd worn as he laughed and shook hands good-naturedly, before pushing a hand self-consciously through the curls in an attempt to tame them. She'd wolf-whistled, earning a laugh from his soldiers, a chuckle from the Iron Bull as the Qunari flexed his massive biceps, as though the whistle had been directed at him. He knew it had been directed at Cullen, he'd later said, but the lad had been uncomfortable with all the attention. Taking it away from him had earned a grateful smile from the Commander as he wandered off in search of refreshment. _Oh_ , that **_smile_**. A crooked tilt of the lips, the scar bisecting his upper lip tugged with the movement. A smile she'd never have seen in the noble circles of Ostwick, nor in the Circle. It was the smile of a man who had not been told his whole life that impressions were everything; that such a smile was unfitting of him. She rather preferred the Fereldan's demeanor to those she saw in the Free Marches. Not that she'd seen much. Her parents had arranged for her to have a quiet, cushy life in Ostwick's circle when her magic manifested at twelve years of age. No, the Fereldan was an entirely different breed than the men of the Free Marches, and _by the Maker,_ did she love the stark differences between them.

She doesn’t know how long she’s been sitting there daydreaming about the Inquisition’s Commander before she realizes she’s drifted off. There’s the slightest hint of purple to her fingertips, and she knows if she doesn’t get up and move now, Anya may drift off once again, this time unlikely to return. She reaches for the flask again, another mouthful just enough to raise her body temperature the slightest, static lightning under skin to warm her up enough that the purple disappears from her fingertips. The rest of the Lyrium goes back to her belt, a small shake of the flask determining she has maybe two mouthfuls left before she’s on her own.

Following the tunnel out seems like the safest course of action, and so Anya tugs her coat closer around herself, pulling the everknit wool sash from around her waist to create a makeshift hood, hopefully enough to keep the cold out.

It’s not.

No sooner does she step out of the cavern is she tempted to step back in as a blizzard roars around her, the shivering whimpers carried away by the winds. There’s a tree-line up ahead that she makes for, boots sinking into inches of fresh snow, likely covering any tracks she might have been able to follow. She doesn’t know how long she walks, nor how much time passes, but she uses the last of her Lyrium, lightning thrumming through her veins and creating some more heat before it dissipates and she’s left to the elements again.

“Cuh- _Che bella cosa è na jurnata ’e_ s- _sole,  
n’aria serena _ duh- _doppo na_ t-te- _tempesta..._ ” The words of the Tevene lullaby her nanny had sung her to sleep with are swept away on the wind, quiet as they are, forced through chattering teeth and purpling lips, but it’s the only way Anya can keep her mind on the task ahead.

“P- _Pe’ ll’aria_ fuh- _fresca pare già na_ fe- _festa...  
Che _ buh- _bella cosa na jurnata ’e_ ss- _sole._ ”

There’s a crevice between two mountains ahead, and Anya stumbles towards it, steps more sluggish now, hands wrapping the cloak tight around her as she searches for the rest of the words to the lullaby.

“Muh _-Ma n’atu_ ss- _sole…_ _cchiù bello, oi ne’,_  
_’o_ ss _-sole mio…_ st- _sta nfronte a te._  
_’o sole, ’o sole mio, sta nfronte a te,_  
st _-sta nfronte… sta nfronte…_ ”

She imagines that Cullen is running towards her as her legs finally give out, and the world goes mercifully black.

* * *

 

“One last search party, Leliana, that’s all I’m asking. If we don’t find her, we’ll move on.” Cullen’s voice is hard and determined as he stares down the spymaster, unwilling to compromise or back down. The morale of their people had plummeted after seeing the Herald run to her death against the Elder One and his archdemon, but he was not about to accept her death without proof. His heart had gone cold and sunk as she had run out of the Chantry with Dorian, the Iron Bull and Cassandra, only the latter three returning as an avalanche buried Haven in its depths. No-one had dared to say a word as they set up camp for the first night, no-one wanting to be the one to confirm the finality of what they were all thinking; the Herald—no, Anya, their friend, had fallen.

Anya, with her unnaturally coloured eyes, the green of the rifts that scattered Thedas. With her skin as pale as the snow that scattered the mountain tops of Haven, the unruly white waves of hair that fell to her waist, oft wrapped in a braided knot at the base of her neck. The cheeky smirk on beautifully pink lips, the gentle warmth in her eyes and in her touch as she reached out to help in any way she could. She was a marvel to behold, almost ethereal and alien in her beauty, her kindness unmatched, her determination to save as many as she could in her actions of sacrifice a mere few hours ago.

And they didn’t even have a body to build a pyre for in respect.

“Fine. One last search party. Take a few of my scouts with you, they’ll move faster than your soldiers.” The last comment is unnecessary, and though Cullen’s hackles immediately rise in defense of his soldiers, he doesn’t respond, knowing that everyone’s tensions are strung high with the loss.

As he’s preparing the last search party, Dorian, the Iron Bull and Cassandra make their way over to him. He raises an eyebrow in their direction but continues organizing the last group of scouts and soldiers and their search area before turning to the odd threesome.

“So, when are we leaving?” Dorian asks, and Cullen raises his eyebrows at the Tevinter. He seems as determined as Cullen had been moments ago when facing the Spymaster, making it clear the three of them are coming along with the search party whether Cullen approves or not.

“We?” Cullen inquires, crossing his arms at the defiant troupe.

“Yes, we.” It’s Cassandra’s turn to speak, chin up, shoulders back, the picture of determination. “The Iron Bull has offered to help should we come across any obstacles, Dorian’s fire magic will be useful should we come across any snow banks in our path, or should we find the Herald and need to give her medical attention.” And she hesitates now. There is no reason for her to be coming along, but she tilts her chin up at the Commander once more. “And I am coming to find my friend, whether you like it or not.”

Cullen regards each of them with an unreadable look, before turning to gather his sword and his gloves from the table. “We leave in five minutes.”

* * *

 

They’ve been walking for a near hour, the tents they had set up in the valley looking like a small village in the distance from the top of the mountain.  Cullen had chosen to accompany Cassandra, the Iron Bull and Dorian, giving his teams the word to meet back at the encampment in three hours if they haven’t found anything. The four of them are walking silently, the wind whistling in their ears. The Iron Bull has taken the lead, far more skilled in tracking than any of them as they make their way towards the crevice between two mountains they had come through on their way to Haven. The wind almost creates a melody as it whistles through the cracks and crevices, and—

“Do you hear that?” Bull asks, and they all halt, listening intently for whatever it is Bull has heard.

“P- _Pe’ ll’aria_ fuh- _fresca pare…..Che_ buh- _bella …… ’e_ ss- _sole…_ ” The words are quiet on the wind, stuttered and broken, near inaudible, but Dorian perks up at the sound of them, stepping in front of the Iron Bull in the direction of the words.

“I know that song… It’s a Tevene lullaby. Until a week ago, I hadn’t heard it since I was a child, but Anya was singing it---” Dorian gasps as the realization hits him, and he runs ahead, following the song as it plays on the wind. The others rush to catch up when the meaning of the unfinished sentence reaches them; Cullen dares not allow himself to hope, but he still runs along. The words get more coherent, sentences no longer lost on the wind as they near the source; a figure stumbling through the snow, a green glow emanating from their left hand.

“ _’o sole, ’o sole mio, sta nfronte a te,_  
st _-sta nfronte… sta nfronte…..”_ ”

“The Herald! She’s alive!” Cassandra gasps, and Cullen breaks into a full sprint, passing the Iron Bull and Dorian as he makes his way towards the pale figure as she stumbles and falls, unmoving in the snow. He’s stripping off the fur cloak he’s wearing as he runs, falling to his knees next to her immobile figure. Her lips are purple, and the colour has drained out of her already pale face. He wraps her in his cloak, and lifts her into his arms as Dorian stumbles in the snow next to him, taking Anya’s hands and urging his fire magic to bring her temperature up. He grows worried at how long it takes for her body to accept his magic, and Cullen’s heart skips a beat at the concern on the Tevinter Mage’s face.

“Cassandra, run ahead, get the healers to set up a tent by the fire for the Herald. She’s dangerously close to a Winter’s Death.” Dorian commands, and for once, Cassandra doesn’t argue, taking off in a full sprint back to the camp.

“Commander, I’ll take her. Qunari generate more body heat, she’ll warm quicker with me.” The Iron Bull is gentle as he holds his arms out, and hesitantly, Cullen nods, gently handing her over to the Bull. Dorian strips off his own cloak, laying it over her as well, before rooting around in his pockets and withdrawing a fire rune that he places within the layers.

“That should keep her warm until we get back to camp. Let’s go.”

Cullen doesn’t know why he isn’t the one issuing commands. He should be; he was the authority in this search party. But he can’t get any words past his lips, eyes glued to her lifeless form, throat closed up, heartbeat as rapid as the mountain fall that had buried Haven mere hours ago. _She’s alive. She’s alive. She’s alive. She’s alive alive alive alivealivealivealive—_

He’s startled out of his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder, and he turns to look at Dorian, a tentative smile on the mage’s face. “She’s alive, Commander. But we need to get her to safety.”

“Of course.” He finally finds his voice, clears his throat when it cracks mid word. “Let’s go, it shouldn’t take us long.”

As they start the trek back to camp, he vows never to let what happened at Haven repeat itself, even if it means gluing himself to her side.

**Author's Note:**

> Daaamn, Jay, finally back at it again with the fanfics.  
> So with the assumption that Orlais has its basis in France/French, I looked up what Tevinter's closest real world language is. As near as I could find, it's a mix of Latin, Italian and Arabic. This is the version of ['O Sole Mio](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PWWrpEwUlHs) I listened to while writing this. It's sung in the Neapolitan language, which is the language of Southern Continental Italy. Lyric translations [ here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%E2%80%99O_sole_mio) if you're interested! Stay tuned, there may be more to come for little Miss Anya. (points if you can guess that reference.)


End file.
